The Bad Book Affair. Ian Sansom

That’s not it.’

      ‘I think it might be, actually. If you want to have a look here…’

      ‘No.’

      ‘The classic book of synonyms and antonyms?’

      ‘No! Cymbals and Antimals?’

      ‘I think it’s the Thesaurus.’

      ‘It is not. The De Saurus.’

      ‘OK, well, sorry. We can’t help you with the De Saurus.’

      ‘D’ye have any books on the Foreign Legion, then?’

      ‘Certainly.’

      ‘And a guidebook to Prague for the wife?’

      ‘Of course.’

      He was harmless, really, Mr McCully. They were all harmless: the only real harm they did was to Israel’s fragile mental and emotional health.

      Like Mrs Hammond, for example.

      ‘I’m looking for a book.’

      ‘Yes, Mrs Hammond. Good. You’ve come to the—’

      ‘It’s a true story.’

      ‘OK.’

      ‘About a man.’

      ‘Good. What kind of a man?’

      ‘It was on the telly yesterday, sure. A fella was talking about it.’

      ‘I see. And the man was…?’

      ‘It was the fella on the telly. The English man. With the lovely hair.’

      ‘Right. The man who wrote the book was an English man with lovely hair? Or the man who the book is about is an English man with lovely hair?’

      ‘Ach, no, the man with the programme on the telly with the lovely hair.’

      ‘Ah. The man with the programme on the telly…who interviewed the man…? about his book…about the man…is an English man…with lovely hair?’

      ‘That’s right.’

      ‘Well, let’s see what we can find here.’

      And Hughie Boyd.

      ‘I was in last year, sure, and there was a book on a shelf down there, but it’s not there now.’

      ‘Right.’

      ‘D’ye not have it, then?’

      ‘Erm. Whereabouts on the shelf was it exactly?’

      ‘Just there, look. There.’

      ‘Here?’

      ‘No! There!’

      ‘Ah. Oh. Right. There. Well. I’m afraid we’ve moved that book.’

      ‘Typical.’

      ‘Thank you, Mr Boyd! Lovely to see you! Have a nice day!’

      And George Kemp.

      ‘D’ye have Bibles?’

      ‘Yes, indeed, we do, Mr Kemp. Bibles. Bibles. Let me see. A Bible, anyway. Here we are. Yes.’

      ‘I’ll take it.’

      ‘Erm. Well. It’s reference only, I’m afraid.’

      ‘What do ye mean?’

      ‘I can’t issue it to you.’

      ‘But it’s the Bible.’

      ‘Yes, I know.’

      ‘You can’t stop me getting out the Bible.’

      ‘Well, yes, I can, actually, if it’s a reference book.’

      ‘It’s not a reference book!’

      ‘Yes it is. It’s—’

      ‘It’s the Word of God.’

      ‘Yes. But I’m afraid it’s our reference copy of the Word of God. I’m afraid you can’t take it with you right now. I can get you a copy on interlibrary loan for next week.’

      ‘That’s no good to me, is it? I want to read it now.’

      ‘Well, you can read it here, if you want to.’

      ‘In here? Are ye mad? I want to read it in the privacy of my own home. It’s for the purposes of private devotion.’

      ‘Well, I’m sorry, I can’t—’

      ‘Yer not a Christian, are ye?’

      ‘Erm…’

      ‘Ye’re not washed in the blood of the Lamb?’

      ‘Erm…’

      ‘You know you’re going to hell, unless you turn to Jesus.’

      ‘Right. Good. Thank you, Mr Kemp. Have a nice day!’

      And of course Mrs Onions’ friend, Noreen.

      ‘Now, young man, will ye choose me a book?’

      ‘Yes, of course, Noreen. I…Just remind me, what sort of books do you like to…’

      ‘I’ve read them all now.’

      ‘OK. What, all the books in the library?’

      ‘Every last one of them.’

      ‘All the books?’

      ‘Aye.’

      ‘Everything?’

      ‘Aye. I’m eighty-four, you know.’

      ‘Yes. Well done.’

      ‘I waited fourteen years for a knee replacement.’

      ‘Uh-huh.’

      ‘It was crumbling away.’

      ‘Right.’

      ‘I’ve read all these books, you know.’

      ‘Yes, you said.’

      ‘All the Mill and Boons.’

      ‘There are other books you could try, Noreen…’

      ‘Ach, no. I don’t have time for them. I had a friend, she died while she was reading one of them other books.’

      ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

      ‘You’re all right—it wasnae a library book. She bought her own books.’

      ‘Right.’

      ‘Her son looked after her rightly. Not like mine. I’ve not a phone call from them from week to week. I wonder, would ye be able to do me a few bits of shopping in?’

      Misplaced, that was the word for it. That’s what he was, Israel. That was his problem. He was misplaced. He rightly belonged in delightful places, Israel, filled with delightful people: Ravello, for example, in the 1920s, or somewhere around Lake Como, perhaps, with people who enjoyed painting watercolours of old buildings, and who drank prosecco, and grappa, from small tumblers, while enjoying intellectually stimulating and ever-so-slightly-erotically-charged conversations. His natural habitat was formal terraced gardens, swagged with wisteria, with ancient fig trees and vine-covered trellises, and shaded patios leading into light-filled villas with shutters and faded parquet flooring. Even back home in leafy north London, with access to good coffee and a reliable broadband service, that’d do. Instead, he’d somehow ended up as the mobile librarian in a town where Pat’s Manicure and Footcare (‘Manicure, Polish, Acrylics, Corns, Callouses, And Verucas’) in the town square was a popular meeting place for young and old alike, and where local fishmonger Tommy Turner’s recent winning of the local Chamber of Commerce’s Small-To-Medium Business Personality of the Year